Home
by Alice Foxworth
Summary: He only came by every so often, maybe once every two months, or if she was lucky, he'd come two months in a row. In an unlucky situation, he wouldn't stop by for up to five months and leave her pacing by the door, praying he was okay. He never tried to worry her, but he almost always succeeded in doing so.


A/N: this story takes place after Reichenbach. Sherlock is attempting to wipe out the 'Web', or Moriarty's criminal web, and comes by Molly's place sometimes.

He only came by every so often, maybe once every two months, or if she was lucky, he'd come two months in a row. In an unlucky situation, he wouldn't stop by for up to five months and leave her pacing by the door, praying he was okay. He never meant to worry her, but he almost never succeeded.

When he did come by, it was typically the same story; he would be skinnier than the time before, exhausted, bruised, bloodied, and dirty. She always took his bag for him. She always offered him a seat at her table. There was always food for him. She always had a first-aid kit on hand.

He never spoke. Glances would be exchanged and there would be a few comforting touches scattered here and there, but no words were spoken. The silence itself was enough for all feelings to be heard. Her worry and anxiety and relief was portrayed right alongside his pain, his fear, and his guilt. The silence said it all. She knew his goal, his mission, there was no need for speaking.

She would sit him down with a bowl of soup or a sandwich and a mug of hot tea and bandage his wounds. Each one was taken care of separately. Each scar was caressed and kissed before being sealed up with care. Each one was checked before he left, which was usually from three to seven hours after his arrival. She would stay up with him. She would see him off, a new cycle of worry beginning again every time.

_God keep him safe._

He didn't show up for eight months. She stayed by the door. She sat, back against the wall, book in hand, waiting for the familiar tired knock that would assure her he was alright. Even if he was torn apart at the seams, he was alright. But it didn't come.

Eight months she worried. Eight months she sat, alone, afraid he'd been killed in action, he had failed to evade capture by the Web. Eight months of checking out of every window she came to, inside and outside her flat, watching for the tall, scrawny, familiar man. Eight months of disappointment at every window.

Then it happened. Just as the rain began pouring late in the evening. Just as she was beginning to give up, to stop waiting, to give in to her worst fear, there was a knock on her door. She wasn't sure she had heard it at first, but then it came a second time. She couldn't get her hopes up. It might not be him. She walked calmly to the door. Taking a deep breath, she pulled it open.

He smiled. She blinked. He stood, alive, in one piece, in front of her. She opened her mouth to say something, to ask something, but could not. He looked mostly fine, aside from being tremendously malnourished and his hair being untamed and tangled. He looked fine aside from the deep and uncared for cut from his temple to his forehead, still gleaming with fresh, wet blood. He looked fine. His pants were coated in dirt and mud; she would have to wash them this time, his bag still looked intact. His shirt -

His shirt was torn at the hem and covered in dirt, but that wasn't what caught her attention. It was the patch of fresh blood on his left side. She furrowed her brow and immediately noticed how his eyelids began to droop. He was losing consciousness.

She grabbed his waist and placed his arm around her shoulder. She may as well have been carrying him when he leaned on her for support, his whole body depended on her strength. She helped him to the bathroom, where he perched on the side of her tub. She began peeling off his soiled, once-white shirt. He tried to help, but she slapped his hands away, kneeling in between his legs to get a better view. Once his shirt was all the way off, she pushed it off of his shoulders, purposefully running her hands over his smooth chest, his prominent ribs, and his hunched shoulders. He didn't protest when his shirt was thrown carelessly into the sink.

He didn't protest when she pulled out the first-aid kit and sorted out the assorted bandages and gauzes and cleaning towels. He didn't protest when she started on his head, on the bad cut near his hairline. He cringed when the antiseptic stung the open and raw wound, but bit his lip instead and didn't pull away. She finished and decorated the scar with and simple kiss and two butterfly bandages and leaned over him to turn on the hot water in her bathtub.

When the water was so hot that steam rose up off of the surface, she stood him up and helped him edge out of his trousers and boxers and step into the hot water. He hissed at the temperature, but complied; he was too tired to argue, and sat with his back against the end of the tub. She pulled a bottle of men's shampoo (the kind he used when he had come over before) and squeezed some in her left hand. She coated both hands after replacing the shampoo and scooping some water into his hair and began to massage the sweet-smelling syrup into his scalp. She rinsed the bubbles out only when all the dirt and grime was gone, along with the smell that came with it. While the bubbles from the shampoo lay on the surface of the water, she pulled a washcloth out from under her sink and dried the wound on his side. He grimaced a few times, turning away and refusing to watch her work, instead allowing her to examine, clean, and bandage the wound the same as the one on his forehead, complete with the simple kiss delicately pressed to the scar.

After his wounds were cared for, she reached into the tub and drained the water, grabbing him a towel so he could dry off, and while he dried off, she brought him new, clean clothes, and put away the first-aid kit. She finished and went out into the kitchen to prepare something for him to eat. By the time he came out of the bathroom, she had already finished chicken noodle soup and was pouring it into bowls and setting it on the table. He seemed eager to taste her meal and slumped into his seat, picking up his spoon and beginning to eat the soup, hungrily, but slowly, to savor it. She sat in the seat to the left of him and they finished their soup in under a half-hour. They sat at the table, not speaking, just sitting, for another hour. She knew he needed it.

After a while, she got up and reached over to take his bowl, but was stopped when she felt his hands around her hips. He pulled her close, she could see his eyes were closed, and rested his head on her stomach. He was gripping her shirt on both sides, and she couldn't pull away even if she had wanted to. She comforted him by placing her hands in his hair, gently playing with his curls and allowing him to be close, to be at peace. She kissed the top of his head.

Something wet hit her foot. She didn't jump, she knew what it was. He was crying. She hushed him and dropped to her knees, placing his forehead on hers she closed her eyes to match his as his hands grasped her wrists and he silently permitted tears to roll down his porcelain cheeks. They stayed like that for another two hours, until he pulled away and took their dishes to the sink. Their moment had not been necessarily intimate, they never were, but communicative. That was their way of telling each other it would be all right.

The night moved on and the-not cuddling, it wasn't like cuddling, it was just holding-moved to the sitting room area. They sat, her back against the couch, his head on her lap, and their legs outstretched. She stroked his hair, he breathed, they remained silent.

She wondered, however, if this was like everyone of the last visits, if he would leave in a few hours, or if he would actually stay this time, so she dared break the silence. 'When are you leaving?'

He glanced up at her, his mouth beginning to form a smile, and in his deep and smooth and soothing baritone voice, he murmured, 'I'm not.' She looked bewildered, so he continued, 'I did it. They're all dead. The Web is gone. Disintegrated.'

She began to understand, and her mouth struggled not to smile back. 'You're not leaving?' He shook his head and she couldn't resist the urge to bend down and kiss his lips. When she realized what she was doing, she pulled back, lips slightly parted, breathing quickened, to see his surprised face, but instead of the wrath and fury she expected, he looked content. His widened eyes returned to their normal size, and he relaxed in her arms and closed his eyes, breathing a huge sigh.

Molly silently thanked God that it didn't turn out badly. When she had finished her silent prayer, she shifted her gaze to him. He was obviously already asleep, hair still rumpled, but clean, face peaceful, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in a silent mantra, fingers interlaced with her own.

She rested her head against the couch and closed her eyes, soon joining him in a deep sleep.

He was home. He was here, in her arms, and he was home.

_~fin~_


End file.
